


no better place than right by your side

by velvetnoodle (goldfishsunglasses)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Confessions, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, Morning After, Strangers to Lovers, Walks On The Beach, Weddings, and it's not their wedding, signs from the universe, well the aftermath really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:05:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/pseuds/velvetnoodle
Summary: louis' in the maldives for a friends destination wedding when he meets harry at the reception. they agree to a no-strings-attached hook up: no last names, no phone numbers, no personal info, and no promises. only, the universe has other ideas.aka the one where harry just won't leave louis alone (but he really doesn't mind)





	no better place than right by your side

**Author's Note:**

> [here](http://www.wmaldives.com/) is the resort they're staying at and here is the [sea of stars](http://14b59adc8d4cac3690af-fc231efd8aa49b5fa633bd072cdc8242.r30.cf1.rackcdn.com/lps/assets/u/Luminous-Sea-3_1200x690.jpg)
> 
> thank you I for the beta/britpick <3 and thank you A for looking over this as well and allowing me to forcibly drag you into the wonderful word of larry fic xD

It starts with a note.

Actually, it starts with harsh morning light filtering through his tightly closed lids, and a cold bed. Well, not cold; nothing is cold here. But it’s empty, lacking the presence of the warm body who’d occupied it for most of the night. Louis squeezes his eyes shut, like if he tries hard enough he can fall back asleep and wake up to a different scenario. Something a little less cliche than his one night stand sneaking out before he woke up.

He counts to ten. And then again, just to be sure it really isn’t possible. (It isn’t.) Resigning himself to his fate, Louis finally forces himself to look, brow furrowing when he notices that the pillow to his right isn’t completely empty after all.

There’s a piece of paper resting there, the unmistakable hotel logo bright and visible at the top, and an unfamiliar scrawl covering the rest of it. He squints, and winces once it becomes apparent that he forgot to take out his contacts the night before. Working to ignore the burning sensation, Louis quickly scans the contents of the note, which informs him - eventually, because the writer spends a large chunk of time rambling - that the man he’d met the night before has gone down to the kitchen to take advantage of the complimentary (well, sort of, as it’s technically on Stuart’s dime) breakfast buffet, and won’t Louis join him for a meal?

Louis knows he could ignore the note, there’s nothing stopping him from crumpling it up, ordering room service, and spending the rest of his holiday hiding out in his ridiculously posh suite. It’s not like he’ll ever see the man again - they’d agreed as much the night before. One night, no strings, no last names, no problem. 

The idea is far less appealing in the light of day. 

Which is why, after a long stretch that makes his shoulder pop, Louis drags himself out of bed and into the ensuite to make himself look presentable enough for breakfast with Harry. 

_ Harry.  _

Louis had first spotted him across the room - because this whole experience has been one cliche after another, apparently - during the reception. He remembers wondering why he hadn’t noticed the other man earlier, as his black and white floral suit and long mess of curls is what immediately drew Louis’ eye. He was also one of those people whose presence seemed to command a room, whether it was intentional or not. 

Looking back, he should have known their hook up was inevitable the moment Harry’d noticed him staring. He’d stared right back, and while Louis couldn’t discern his exact facial expression from that far away, he’d taken the sustained eye contact as an invitation to make his way across the dance floor to acquaint himself with the fittest man at the wedding. 

And the rest, as they say, is history. 

Or it was, until their epic night of mystery extended into today, and Louis found himself rooting through his suitcase to find something suitable to meet Harry in. Something casual, but not too casual. And he couldn’t look like he was trying too hard, either. Unfortunately, he hadn’t exactly brought a huge array of choices, so he settled on shorts and a white t-shirt, with a blue jacket as a buffer from the island breeze. He reached for his glasses instinctively, before remembering the kitchen was open-air, opting for his Ray-bans instead. 

He’s crouched down to tie his trainers when his mobile buzzes with a text from Harry, who’s sent him a picture of the spread with a frankly inappropriate amount of tongue emojis. Louis rolls his eyes affectionately, and marvels at just how quickly he’s come to accept the other man’s idiosyncrasies. Too quickly, really, for someone who he’s most likely never going to see again. Still, these past 12 hours have been a riot, and breakfast with Harry will be the perfect thing before they part ways for good.   

The resort is large enough that they won’t cross paths again, Louis’ sure of it. He’s also got plans to check out a diving class this afternoon, something that will use up a large chunk of the remaining time he’s got before his flight back to England tomorrow morning. Maybe he’ll stop by the spa as well; it’s not something he indulges in often - for cost reasons, as he’s perfectly secure in his masculinity, thanks ever so - but he won’t be the one paying. 

Yes, he’ll definitely be checking out the spa today.

~ * ~

When he finally makes it to the outdoor kitchen 20 minutes later - it’s a big resort, okay? - Harry is back at the buffet, for what Louis assumes is the second or third time, considering the photos he’s been sending Louis during the walk over. He stops and lets himself stare, admiring the way Harry still manages to look fit as fuck in a grandpa shirt with his long hair held back by a pair of sunnies. It’s quite ridiculous, actually, and on anyone else it would look terrible. But Harry isn’t anyone else. He’s… Well, he’s… 

He’s Harry. There isn’t really any other way to describe him, Louis has learned, and that’s part of what makes him so intriguing. 

“Y’know, for someone who takes the piss about my ‘creepy frog stare’ so much, you sure do spend a lot of time doing it,” Harry says, catching Louis’ attention just in time for him to catch the strange one-handed air quotations that somehow still convey the message. 

“I wasn’t staring,” Louis says quickly, and Harry smirks. 

“Sure you were. Did it last night, too. You’re not exactly subtle, Lou.”

Louis works to hide the expression on his face, something between surprised and pleased. He hadn’t thought they were at the nickname stage yet. And then he doesn’t have to work anymore, because it’s gone as soon as he remembers it doesn’t matter, because he’s never going to see Harry again. 

It’s a profoundly depressing thought. 

Hopefully not one that affects his appetite too much, though, as everything looks delicious. Including Harry. God, something about the other man has turned him into someone who… well someone who thinks shit like that. He’ll need to be careful lest he accidentally voices one of those traitorous thoughts. 

“Get a plate,” Harry instructs, drawing Louis’ internal panic to an abrupt halt. “Everything’s delicious; I recommend it all.”

“Not as delicious as you,” he mumbles under his breath. Harry smiles and says nothing, but it’s obvious he heard, and Louis sort of wants to die on the spot. But he wants a Belgian waffle more, so that can wait. “I’m 1/16th Belgian,” he tells Harry next, if only to distract from his mistake, and Harry snorts from next to him. 

“Mate, I thought we weren’t supposed to share anything about ourselves. It was your bloody idea too.”

“Right, yeah. Yeah.” 

Fuck past-Louis. That was a shit idea. How is he supposed to give Harry up now? It’d seemed like the perfect suggestion last night; they’d both voiced concern about ruining their perfect night the next day. So Louis had gone and opened his big mouth. And Harry’d happily agreed to his stupid plan of not sharing anything personal - beyond their names, but that was only because Claudia had casually introduced them to each other on one of her trips around the reception - and not making plans past that night. 

A truly stupid,  _ stupid  _ idea. 

And he’s paying for it today, because Harry’s even lovelier in the daylight - as if that’s even possible - and he’s just as pleasant to talk to as well. Pleasant, and bit weird, really. But it’s a good weird. Refreshing. Different. And Louis’ desperately needed something different in his life lately. He hadn’t actually realised how bad of a rut he’d fallen into until he’d received his invitation for Stuart and Claudia’s destination wedding, and he’d been forced to confront just how many holiday pay days he’d allowed to accumulate. 

This weekend has been a sorely needed break. A holiday from his real life that he’s absolutely going to return to come Monday morning, and he absolutely will not be thinking about Harry. Or his chocolate curls that are still a bit tangled from Louis’ attentions the night before. Or his green  _ green  _ eyes that Louis couldn’t help but notice, which was saying something, as he’s not sure he knows the eye colour of most of his friends. 

Or those puffy, kiss-bitten lips that Louis’ trying his bloody well hardest not to stare too hard at. Because  _ fucking hell _ , he’d quite like to snog Harry now. Even with a mouthful of eggs and a spot of hollandaise at the corner of his mouth. 

Yeah, definitely arse over kettle, much too deep to salvage what’s sure to be a shattered heart come tomorrow morning. But it’s been worth it. Definitely worth it. 

“You’ve got sauce on your face,” he informs Harry, who darts that bloody devilish pink tongue out to swipe it away. Louis’ attention is focused solely on that tongue, on the memories of what exactly that tongue can do, when he realises Harry’s speaking to him. 

“Did I get it?”

Louis nods, not trusting his voice at the moment, and thanks every deity he knows - and some he doesn’t - when the timer on his waffle lets out a  _ ding _ and he has an excuse to end their conversation that can’t quite pass as a conversation. 

Once he’s plated everything, he turns around to find Harry’s left him, probably to go and eat at an actual table instead of standing up like he had been, and Louis scans the tables for a familiar face. He finally spies Harry waving him over, and he inhales slowly before making his way there. He’s perfectly aware that every extra minute he spends with Harry is a stolen one, that it’ll only hurt worse when they finally go their separate ways, but he just can’t stay away. It’s impossible. He refuses. 

He’s not sure Harry would let him, anyway. And Harry is  _ very  _ persuasive. Or maybe Louis’ just easily persuaded by pretty boys. Or both. 

That’s not important. 

(It’s definitely both.)

And now Harry’s actively trying to kill him. It’s the only explanation, the only reason he’s doing this. Surely he doesn’t behave this indecently all the time; someone would have put a stop to it before now. Harry’s actively trying to kill him, every bite, every sip of his drink is pure torture for Louis, because every bite and sip and nibble is done tongue first. Louis didn’t even think that was  _ possible.  _

To be fair, he didn’t think a lot of things were possible before meeting Harry. He blushes at the memories, and clears his throat as Harry lets the straw of his colourful drink fall from his lips. It catches on his tongue, and, Christ, this is how Louis dies. 

“Is there something wrong with your food?” Harry asks after taking several more long sips of the drink that Louis has been cursing the invention of. And also the drinking straw. Whose idea was that? And why did they hate Louis so much? How could they have predicted this exact moment so many years ago? Fuck straws. 

Louis looks up when Harry lets out a particularly undignified snort. “What?”

“You just said ‘fuck straws’,” he points out. “What did straws ever do to you?”

“You don’t want to know,” Louis mumbles back, cheeks colouring at his accidental admission. 

“You didn’t even answer my question,” Harry continues. “I asked if there was something wrong with your food.”

“What? No, nothing’s wrong with it.”

“Then why aren’t you eating?”

_ Because you’re too distracting, _ he thinks, and looks up quickly just in case he’s spoken aloud again. 

“You didn’t,” Harry assures him, like he  _ knows,  _ “and you’re also missing out on a delicious brekkie; when are you going to get a chance to dine like this again?”

Louis shrugs, because Harry has a point, and he spears a piece of pineapple with his fork. It’s not until he pops the piece of fruit in his mouth that he realises he’d caught a bit of egg as well, and now Harry’s looking at him with an even more amused expression than before. 

He’s got two options: he could either spit the offending combination out, or he could pretend he did it on purpose. He opts for the latter, and Harry’s eyes widen slightly after he swallows. 

“I’ve never seen anyone do that,” he says.

“What, eat? Swallow?”

“Eat  _ that. _ ”

“You judging my taste in food, Harold?”

“I absolutely am. And my name isn’t Harold.”

“Sure it is, Harold,” he says, because he desperately needs to regain the upper hand in this interaction; he’s floundering. It’s a new sensation, and he hates it. 

“Okay,  _ Lewis, _ ” Harry shoots back, and Louis can’t help the surprised chuckle that escapes. 

“Fair do’s. I suppose I deserved that.”

Harry steals the last piece of pineapple instead of answering, and Louis watches him chew, swallow, and adjust his napkin before asking, “What are your plans for the day?”

He hadn’t been expecting that question; this wasn’t part of their plan. Bloody hell, just having breakfast together already violated the terms they’d agreed to last night. He wonders briefly if Harry’s going to try and spend more time with him, but then he rationalises that this is probably just an attempt at small talk before they part for good.

“‘m thinking about checking out the spa,” he replies, because he’s been dreaming of a good massage ever since he’d checked out this place online months ago. Work has been a nightmare, his personal life not much better, and he just needs a break. And a pair of strong hands digging into his back. Professionally. Platonically. 

Christ, he needs another drink.

He distracts himself from his melancholy thoughts by digging into his waffle. He’s loaded it up with plenty of strawberries and cream and even chocolate syrup, because apparently that’s a thing people do. It makes it a bit hard to find the actual waffle underneath, and Harry appears to find his search entertaining.

He doesn’t ask Louis anything else as they finish their meal in silence. Not a bad silence, though. The type of silence that two people fall into when they’re comfortable, when they don’t feel the need to fill the space between them with words, because all they need is each other’s presence. 

It’s possible Louis’ gone and made a terrible mistake. And he’s got no bloody idea how to make it right. All he can think about is the dwindling size of his breakfast, of the minutes slipping through his fingers as he tries to eat slower and slower. Soon it’s time to say goodbye, and Louis feels frozen in his seat. 

Harry makes no move to get up either. They stare each other down until Louis decides it’s time to rip off the plaster, perfectly aware it’s only his wishful thinking that’s assuming Harry’s expression has turned anything close to resembling disappointment. 

“I’ll walk you out,” Harry says, and Louis should say no, but he doesn’t.

And that’s mistake number two.

~ * ~

Apparently, in Harry’s world, ‘I’ll walk you out,’ translates to ‘I’ll walk with you all the way to the spa,’ and Louis doesn’t know how to say no. Or if he even really wants to. 

It’s all very complicated.

The red-haired women behind the desk looks up when they enter and smiles brightly. “Hello!” she chirps, “are you here for a couples massage? We’ve just had a cancellation, so you’re in luck!”

Louis opens his mouth to correct her, all too aware of the blush that’s surely colouring his face, when Harry speaks first.

“That sounds good, what do you think, Lou? Shall we get a massage?” The grin he shoots Louis is cheeky, and if Louis hadn’t already fallen arse over kettle for the man, he would be now. 

“Yeah,” he says, throat dry and voice scratchy. “Ehm, yeah. Yeah, we can do that. Massage sounds good. Love a good massage, me. Let’s go get ourselves a massage!” He punctuates his last statement with a small fist pump, and winces when he notices the amused looks he’s receiving both from Harry and the receptionist. 

“Are you done?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says honestly; he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him today. 

Except that he does. He absolutely, positively, does.

This turns out to be mistake number three. 

~ * ~

One surprisingly relaxing couples massage later, they finally said their goodbyes. Louis’ now making his way to the diving lesson he’d signed up for as soon as he’d learned where the wedding would be held. It’s an activity that he’s wanted to try forever, and it will hopefully serve as a perfect distraction from his heartbreak-that-isn’t-a-heartbreak. Distractions are good. Distractions are helpful. Distractions are— 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Louis groans when he spots Harry, earning himself a glare from the elderly couple to his left. The other man doesn’t seem to notice he’s there, and is just standing in the middle of the throng in an obscenely tiny pair of white swimming shorts and absolutely nothing else. It’s then that Louis realises he’s not going to survive his lesson, and he’s about to turn and leave when Harry finally looks up. His delighted smile is enough to convince Louis not to run away (bloody  _ hell _ ) and Louis has to work  _ really fucking hard  _ to keep his eyes on Harry’s face, and not… Well, not his face. 

His efforts to drag his eyes away from Harry’s barely clothed cock draws his gaze to a tattoo he hadn’t noticed last night. Christ, how much bloody ink did this bloke have? He squints, but he can’t make out what it is at a distance, especially without his glasses. It’s a convenient excuse to strike up a conversation; a perfectly normal icebreaker. Never mind that they’ve already done far more than just break the ice. 

“Is that a bulldog on your thigh, or are you just happy to see me?”

Harry visibly starts before he realises it’s Louis who’s spoken, and raises a curious - and vaguely judgemental - eyebrow. “It’s a tiger, actually. And that was a terrible line. If you’d used something like that on me last night I never would have gone back to your room.”

“You say that like my actual line was any better.”

“I don’t remember your actual line, if I’m honest. But I’m sure it was.”

Louis doesn’t remember it either, but he knows it worked and he’s hoping whatever ounce of charm he’d managed to tap into at the reception sticks around long enough to… To not do anything, because they’re not supposed to be doing anything. Fuck.

_ Fuck. _

Suddenly, this diving lesson doesn’t sound so appealing anymore. 

~ * ~

Louis was wrong. At breakfast, he’d been so sure that Harry’s tongue would be the thing to end him today, but he’d been wrong. So, so wrong. So wrong, because the sight of Harry going for his straw tongue-first is nothing compared to the knowledge that he’s going commando under the bleeding wetsuit. Nothing. Nowt. Nada. Zip. Zilch. 

He’d missed half the instructions at the beginning because he’d been so focused on not getting hard in his own skin-tight suit. But it’d been… Hard. 

Pun half-intended. 

And now Harry’s standing next to him with the top half unzipped and pushed low enough on his hips that Louis can spy the soft brown thatch of hair he’d become intimately acquainted with the night before. 

Harry is actively trying to kill him. There’s no denying it now; he’s got undeniable proof. 

He’s definitely not drooling. Or staring. 

(Much.)

“You hungry, mate?” he hears Harry ask, and he almost says no, but as if on cue, his stomach gives a loud and insistent growl, and Harry smiles knowingly. 

“Let’s see what they have for tea,” he says, and, well, Louis’ got no choice but to follow, really. It’s just the polite thing to do. Forcing Harry to eat all by his lonesome would just be rude. It’s basic human decency, that’s all. That’s  _ all.  _

(This is mistake number three. Diving class doesn’t count.)

(This is mistake number four.)

~ * ~

“Have you been to the wet bar yet?” Harry asks once they finish eating, and Louis blinks owlishly as Harry grins back. “It’s sick!”

“Is that the one that’s in the pool?”

“Yeah. Wanna go?”

Louis does. He really does. Because if he’s learned anything on this holiday, it’s that he’s a masochist who can’t say no. And Louis  _ never  _ has trouble saying no. He’s quite good at saying no; known for it even. But the minute Harry gives him that  _ look _ , the one that’s all soft eyes and dimpled cheeks, he just can’t do it. 

It’s terribly inconvenient, really. And absolute nuisance. Bloody torture. 

Louis never wants it to end. 

~ * ~

They’re towelling off when Harry once again inquires about Louis’ plans. For a moment he debates lying, as the truth hasn’t exactly worked in his favour today, but he can’t lie to Harry. He just can’t.

“I thought I’d check out that 15° below place.”

“Oh, you mean that underground club? Cool, maybe I’ll see you there.”

Louis freezes, because that definitely is  _ not  _ part of the plan. Then again, nothing today has really gone to plan. Which means he needs a new plan. A better plan. An actually effective plan. One that requires his most revealing top and tightest jeans. One that will offer enough of a distraction to permanently erase Harry from his thoughts. 

(At this point, Louis’ lost count of his mistakes, but this is a particularly terrible one.)

~ * ~

It’s been ages since Louis’ gone to a club, but the scene is still familiar enough that he’s on the floor almost immediately with his pick of dance partners. He lets the thumping bass wash over him as he dances; there’s a pair of hands on his hips and a body pressed against his back, but it’s not Harry. Still, he lets the faceless stranger manhandle him for the moment, revelling in the feeling that comes with being desired. 

Another man tries to dance with him, subtly brushing his crotch against Louis’ with a lecherous grin and just… No.

“Fuck off, mate,” Louis snaps. 

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he tries, but Louis’ glare proves to be an effective deterrent, and after flashing Louis a look like a kicked puppy, the man leaves to be a creep somewhere else. 

The hands holding his hips are gripping him tighter now, the fingers creeping closer to the front of his jeans. Although they aren’t Harry’s fingers, Louis still lets it happen, watching as his cock starts to harden. He presses his bum back and finds his dance partner in a similar situation, and he’s half-considering dragging him off to the loo when he catches a whiff of tobacco and vanilla - a scent that’s become far too familiar far too quickly. Much like the sound of Harry’s voice, even when it’s sharper than usual. Lower. Huskier. 

Sexier.

“Mind if I cut in?” Harry says, and it’s so bloody cliche that Louis can’t hide his snort. It’s either lost in the music, or Harry doesn’t care, because he moves into the space previously occupied by the stranger with no further comment. Which is fine, because Louis doesn’t need more than this. As long as it’s Harry’s front pressed against his back and Harry’s hands on his hips and Harry’s mouth attached to his neck, Louis’ content. 

For the next few songs, he allows himself to forget how temporary all of this is. He doesn’t have to leave in the morning. He doesn’t have to leave Harry behind. He doesn’t have to return to his boring job and his boring life. All that matters is right now, and he’s going to soak it all up while he’s got the chance. 

Harry’s cock is hard against his bum now, and as tempted as he is to drag him back to one of their rooms, he knows that if he does, saying goodbye will be impossible. Before he gets too caught up in grinding back, he pushes Harry’s hands away from his hips and turns around to face him. 

“Fancy a walk on the beach?” he asks, going up on his toes to reach Harry’s ear, who nods and lets Louis drag him by the hand out of the club. He’s so focused on reaching his destination that it must show on his face, because the crowd seems to part for the two of them. That, or he’s too caught up in his own thoughts to notice if he’s shoving people aside. 

It doesn’t matter; he won’t see any of these people again. 

Including Harry.

~ * ~

He can’t do it. He has to see Harry again. Fuck the agreement. Fuck his determination not to appear desperate, not to be That Guy. He has to be That Guy, because Harry’s stumbling his way down to the edge of the water, phone in hand, as he reads aloud from a BBC travel article, and Louis’ never been more attracted to anyone in his life. 

“‘The phenomenon’s effects can vary depending on the time of year and weather, so sightings cannot always be predicted,’” Harry informs him, words slower than usual.

Louis’ got a plan. He’ll leave this up to the universe; it’s out of his hands now. A gamble. Because if they reach the sea, and it’s glowing blue, then he’ll do it. He’ll put it all out there, and take that chance. He won’t leave without risking it all on Harry, as long as the sea is on his side. 

If it’s not, if they reach the water and it’s dull, well, that’s a sign too. And as hard as it might be, he’ll listen to it as well. Because he’s putting all his faith in the universe now, and the fear of disappointment makes him squeeze his eyes shut before he can get a good look. 

Harry’s stopped reading; he’s gone completely quiet, actually, and the anticipation makes Louis’ heart race faster. The rush of blood in his ears is loud enough that he misses the sound of Harry’s footsteps until someone is taking his hands in their own, and he forces himself to look. 

He’s face to face with Harry, and as much as he’d like to keep staring - and maybe steal a cheeky kiss or two - he chances a look past his shoulder, and sees it. 

The faint blue glow. The one that means he’s meant to go for it. 

“My last name is Tomlinson,” he says before he’s got time to back out. Quickly, before Harry can say anything. “I live in Camden with me mate,” he continues, “even though we’re well past the age to have a flatmate, but neither of us know how to live by ourselves. I’m originally from Doncaster and I’ve got six siblings - five sisters and a baby brother. Me mum is my best friend and I wish I saw her more, but my job keeps me from visiting as often as I’d like. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an actor but I went off to uni and went into finance instead, because it was practical, and I actually really like it, which most people find weird, and that’s fine because it is a bit weird, really. Um… I’ve got a dog, he’s called Cliff, and I hope you’re a dog person, because I really think he’d like you, because I like you and me dog tends to like the people I like, y’know?”

Louis’ got more to say, but he stops himself - he’s gone a bit breathless, actually - and waits. And waits. 

And waits. 

Silence. His confession is met with silence, the gently lapping waves mocking him as he waits for a response. More silence, seconds tick by, and oh fucking hell, Louis’ gone and cocked it all up. Harry obviously had no intention of continuing… whatever this is, and Louis’ just embarrassed himself in front of the best thing that’s happened to him in ages. 

“Right,” he forces out, the word snagging in his throat, “right, I’ll just be going then. I’ll… This was… Bye.” Louis’ barely taken a step, his back to Harry still, when the other man finally breaks the terrible silence. 

“I live in Hampstead.”

Louis stops, not daring to turn around; surely he’s not this lucky. Surely the universe hasn’t actually listened. Surely— “You what?”

“Hampstead. I live there. In Hampstead. Which is in London. Which is where you live. London, I mean. Not Hampstead, unless you live there too, then I’m very sorry for not noticing you before, because bloody hell, you’re amazing and—”

“No, I don’t live in Hampstead. I do live in London, though. In Camden. I just… I just said.”

“Oh, right. That’s close.”

Louis rocks back on his heels. “It is, yeah.”

“15-minute drive,” Harry says. 

“Yup.”

“Less, if traffic is light.”

“That is true,” Louis replies as nonchalantly as he can manage. 

“Could come visit you.”

“You could.”

“Would you…” Harry lifts a hand to his hair, raking his fingers through the strands as he chews on his lower lip. “Is that something you’d like? Is that okay?” 

“Of course it’s okay, you idiot. It’s all I’ve thought about today.”

“Really?”

“Well, that, and this.” 

Before Harry has a chance to ask what ‘this’ is, Louis’ forearms are resting on his shoulders, pulling him ever so slightly forward, as Louis closes the remaining distance between their lips. He encounters absolutely no resistance; there’s no hesitation in the way Harry kisses back, the way his mouth opens easily for Louis’ tongue to slip inside, the slide both familiar and hothot _ hot _ at the same time. 

He’s got no idea why he thought he could give this up, why he thought he could leave this island without Harry. Without the promise of a future with Harry. It’s stupid, it’s so fucking  _ stupid  _ of him to have fallen so fast and so hard for someone he’d only just met the night before. It’s stupid. But then again, Louis’ never claimed to be anything else. 

“I’m stupid for you,” he says between kisses, darting forward to cover the confused purse of Harry’s lips with his own. “I’m stupid for you,” he repeats, “and I’m hoping you’re stupid for me too.”

“If stupid means that you fancy me and don’t want this to end tonight, then sure. I’m stupid for you too, Lou.” Harry’s face lights up at the rhyme, and Louis’ so so so stupid for this man. It’s mad. He’s mad. He’s…

He’s not in love, but he could be. They’ve got potential, him and Harry. Potential he’d almost gone and passed on. Stupidly. 

They aren’t very far from the resort, if Louis listens hard enough he can hear the sounds of people enjoying their last night in paradise, but none of that registers over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, over the sound of Harry’s harsh breathing as he fists his hands on the front of Louis’ shirt. 

“Kiss me, you fool,” Harry whispers, and Louis does. 

It’s the perfect ending to a confusing day, and he really couldn’t be happier. Except apparently he can, because Harry’s fitting his large hands behind Louis’ knees and lifting him up, grunting a bit with the effort. Louis really shouldn’t find it as hot as he does; it’s embarrassing to get turned on from some neanderthal style manhandling, but he supposes there are worse things in the world to get turned on by. 

He can’t think of any at the moment, though. Not because he’s some sort of prude who isn’t aware of various kinks and fetishes, but because he’s being carried back to Harry’s room, where he’s hopefully going to get ravished within an inch of his life. 

He sneaks one last look at the sea, silently thanking the universe for making the bloody thing glow, before burying his face in Harry’s neck and inhaling the now-familiar scent. He can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed by his earnestness any longer, especially now that he knows Harry feels the exact same way. 

And, later, when they’re sprawled out on Harry’s bed, sticking and sated and - in Louis’ case - pleasantly sore, he’ll marvel at how easily they fit together. Like two puzzle pieces, kept apart by confusion, and finally brought together by reckless honesty and a little bit of magic. 

And that, he thinks, is the perfect way to end a holiday. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [reblog the tumblr post here!](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/176198534617/no-better-place-than-right-by-your-side-louis-in)


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